


Strings

by deux_lunes



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 15:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20659652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deux_lunes/pseuds/deux_lunes
Summary: Even before Ivan said, “John, this is Paul,” they knew this person.Originally posted on Livejournal.





	Strings

When they caught eyes at the fête, they both thought, _so that’s what you look like._ Even though neither of them had realized it before, they had been looking for the space to fill that within them. And that’s who it was. That’s what he looked like. Neither of them expected it, and it took their breath for several seconds. John faltered on his words; Paul twisted inside. The beats thumped in their stomachs, the strings of fate tightened, and they knew. Even before Ivan said, “John, this is Paul,” they knew this person. 

When Paul tried to speak, his voice cracked and John laughed, but it was only in excitement. This is what you sound like, he thought, and when Paul sang, the hooks inside him dug almost painfully. Paul kept his eyes on John, soaking in his sight. This wild boy, this is him? It made his head too hot, and the heat flew out of his fingertips. He knew John liked it; John liked him.

The song finished and John had his fingers in Paul’s hair. Paul didn’t mind because it was John. He kept his gaze and John said, “What else have you got down your sleeve, little Elvis?” The beer on his breath spurred him on, and he sat at the piano, determined to show him exactly what else he had hidden there. He could feel the other boys staring when John started to hum in his ear, but he didn’t care. It was John, and John was meant to happen. Not to anyone except him.

How many days did it take until they find themselves outside each other’s homes? Paul’s father and John’s aunt didn’t understand that this was _him_, that this was the one that he needed. Their fingers were always on their guitars; if they weren’t holding onto guitars, then they would have been holding on to each other, and they didn’t know they could do that, not yet. Instead, their chords and their words were the things that penetrated each other. The strings between them vibrated with joy as they played, and when they performed, it was less of a performance than it was the easiest way for them to say, I need you. You’re the one that completes me.

Some nights, they would get drunk and allow themselves to kiss. That’s what you taste like, they thought through the haze. Underneath all your words, this is it. Paul would push John up to the wall of a building, out of the light, out of everyone else’s eyes, because he was afraid that they would steal the beauty of what they were from them. John struggled under the darkness—he felt that they were flowers; they could only grow under the sunlight. But they never said a word of it to each other. Words were only for singing, for loving each other when they couldn’t do it any other way. Even when they shared beds, bodies pressed together in their delicious confines, they only whispered, they never allowed their hands to wander the way they so desperately wanted. 

_Desperate_. It pulled at them; it bit at them every day and every night, hissing _closer, harder, faster, more._ It’s _him_. Instead, they squelched the desperation deep within them. Isn’t this enough, they snarled to themselves, and found other ways of satisfaction. They drank too much. They took too many pills. They fucked too many girls. John even fell in love a couple of times, once with a boy who loved another girl more and once with a girl that he ended up marrying. Paul didn’t mind Cynthia—he knew that words you were supposed to say didn’t mean anything. The way John spoke, the secret voice inside of him didn’t mean a thing, and John and Paul both knew it. Paul was still the one, John knew, even though he kissed his bride and felt their son growing within her, he still felt the pull to Paul. It would only ever be John and Paul—no one else could do them justice. So they became comfortable, playing and singing and sometimes kissing and sometimes even touching. It was their bodies, and that was all they thought that they needed.

After they were famous, after everyone thought they were just “John” and just “Paul,” instead of “John and Paul,” it was harder and harder to deny that it wasn’t enough. Even though their beds were large, they still found themselves together. Come closer, they would will each other, and rested in the curves and nooks of their bodies. They could even kiss when they weren’t drunk. They let themselves wrap around each other to say, I do need you.

But in Key West, when the rain beat down the roofs like they had never seen, they got drunk because they knew they had to say more than words. John collapsed against the wall, and crying, he said, “Paul, I love you.” And Paul knew that he did; he had always known. He brushed John’s tears away, and he said, “I love you.” When they kissed, it was different. They knew, this is the way you love me. And when they made love, the fate inside them spilled between them, making them gasp and smile and kiss again.

Their love was all consuming. Every moment wanted to be John and Paul, that’s what their souls screamed for. But they couldn’t. Their hands reached for each other, but they were met with guitars, with fans, with girlfriends and wives. They had responsibilities. They took what they could get though, and filled the rest with drugs and music. John felt that when they got high, he could make love to Paul without touching him at all, let him say words that could be the love he had. Paul let the pot be inhaled as smoke and be exhaled as music, and he played it for John—this was the way he could make love to him. 

It wasn’t enough. The strings that tied them together were getting taut. Too many people were pulling on them, pulling them apart. A woman started tugging on John’s string until he looked away from Paul. Paul tried to pull the string in kind, but he didn’t notice how frayed it was until it was too late. If he pulled any harder, the string would break. Instead, they let each other wander away. They both got married. They both said that this is what they really wanted. And inside they thought, this is the way you hurt.

It took years. The rift had been deep, but it slowly started to level. The string started to repair, and it was almost fixed when John kissed Paul in the elevator of his home and said, “Think of me every now and then, my old friend.” 

When Paul heard that John was gone, he couldn’t cry because he still felt that string around his finger. John was still here, still somewhere. They were still John and Paul, not anyone else. Paul could still feel John’s arms around him, and said, “So this is the way we are.” John kissed him, and Paul could feel it. This was them.


End file.
